


The pursuit of happiness

by birdthatlookslikeastick



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Happy, Short, i wrote about feelings, navel gazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 09:42:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6465412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdthatlookslikeastick/pseuds/birdthatlookslikeastick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry ponders what brings him pure, simple happiness these days, and finds the answer in an unexpected, yet retroactively obvious, place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The pursuit of happiness

Doctor Henry Morgan tidied his breakfast dishes. It had been an unusually quiet Saturday morning, as Abraham had stayed the night at a lady friend’s house; he'd had to fix himself breakfast.

He'd need to go and visit his tailor later in the day, but there were a few hours yet until the tailor opened. He sipped his perfectly-prepared coffee pensively as he looked out his second-story window at the street below.

A young couple walked by, laughing and holding hands, almost skipping. They were stylishly dressed—hipsters, Abraham would have called them, perhaps—but would hipsters really be out this early? More likely they were of a slightly older set, having outgrown the club scene and were headed out for an upscale breakfast date before the hangover crowd showed up. They seemed so happy, totally enthralled with each other. He saw some shade of him and Abigail in their complete infatuation, how they had withdrawn into their own private paradise for a short time. 

Of course, Abigail's memory now brought him as much pain as it did joy... As the couple turned the corner and vanished, Henry's thoughts turned to the dark years after Abigail had left, and the awful discovery that had been her death. And from there to Adam, to the deathless existence Henry had consigned him to in the hospital. 

Henry put the coffee on the counter with a clink. His thoughts had turned very dark of late. Was there anything left which brought him pure happiness, and nothing but?

Fine food and drink, thought Henry, as he washed the remains of his perfectly prepared eggs benedict from his plate. He was certainly a connoisseur of both things. And opera, perhaps. Come to think of it, with Abraham out, he could safely break the “no opera before 8:00a.m.” rule. 

He walked over to the record player and put on Elektra by Strauss, recorded by Staatsoper Wien with Birgit Nilsson in the title role. Opera was as acquired a taste as fine cuisine or fine whiskey—and once you acquire that taste, you can experience something akin to ecstasy simply by listening to it. It was nothing more nor less than the bottling of the grandest emotions the human soul could experience—joy, despair, victory, defeat, agony, loss... 

But happiness? Plain, simple happiness? Well, come to think of it, no.

The emotions that opera brought up in him were far more complex and nuanced than that, and the joy and light was never far from the despair and the darkness. It was like love, which could soar from the first inspirational stirrings to the infinite depths of lingering heartbreak. Or like fine whiskey, which he could never taste without remembering the time he’d lost to the bottle even as he appreciated the craftsmanship in the rich flavours.

And like fine food, he thought somewhat ruefully, wrapping up the truffle that he’d carefully grated onto his eggs benedict. At some point, eating well simply became the only option. You kept up the good habits so as not to slip into the destructive ones.

But what made him uncomplicatedly happy? Family?

There could be no denying that Abraham brought him happiness, but of course it was never as simple as that between fathers and sons. Happiness was tinged with acrimony and worry, with guilt of decisions made long ago and their outcomes…

At this point, Henry started to feel a little bit persnickety, ruling out perfectly good answers to his existential questions on what felt more and more like technicalities, but he liked technicalities. If one was to identify the font of true and simple happiness, one should be as exact as possible.

Ah, of course! Solving a crime! The thrill of scientific discovery, the triumph of reason and intellect over the obstinate and uncaring world. The feeling of victory was second to none, and Henry loved to compete…

He sighed, realizing like so many competitive people before him, that the thrill of victory was totally, utterly unrelated to happiness. It was an adrenaline rush, not the warm glow he was trying to describe.

Romance? He thought of Jo Martinez and his heart literally gave a lurch. She was another matter altogether, and she brought yet another complicated suite of emotions: panic, fear, joy, perhaps even infatuation... all of which were even farther from anything he could call happiness.

His pet immortal jellyfish? Surely a pet could make him happy? Well... yet again, no. His pets were, after all, the closest thing you could get to plants while still being not plants; they were as much an obligation as anything else. And, for him, they were the exact opposite of a memento mori, really.

With immortality, you couldn't help but take the long view and see both sides of everything. Maybe happiness didn't have an exact inverse, and thus it was lost to him—too simple for him to return to, now. Happiness was for the young, and he was old, old.

He sighed deeply, looking at the antique grandfather clock. 

Nine thirty? Well, time to head down to the tailor, then. Had he really moped away his entire morning?

He opened his scarf closet to see his thirty-seven favorite fine woolen scarves, in a variety of tasteful patterns, weights and cuts to suit any occasion, each one like an old friend; a warm, comforting hug for the shoulders. 

He took five lovely minutes to select the correct scarf—a tasteful houndstooth pattern executed finely in blue merino wool. He couldn't help feeling a contented warmth flowing through him as he set it about his neck, completing his outfit. It was a simple pleasure, but a satisfying one, to indulge this love of his.

He fingered the soft cloth and smiled to himself. Well, he was fond of technicalities. And it was indeed uncomplicated.

 _What a silly old man you are, Morgan_ , he thought. _Pure, simple happiness has been hiding in your closet the entire time._

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to idelthoughts for the beta.


End file.
